


your eyes have their silence

by Ancalime



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-27
Updated: 2010-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-07 14:06:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ancalime/pseuds/Ancalime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Of all the things I could have imagined would have resulted when Flemeth told me to go with you, the very last would have been that I would find in you a friend, perhaps even a sister." More than friends, less innocent than sisters, Morrigan and the human noble Warden grow close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your eyes have their silence

_It is love that asks, that seeks, that knocks, that finds, and that is faithful to what it finds._  
\- Augustine of Hippo

**

Arya opened her eyes with a gasp, snapping from sleep to wakefulness in the blink of an eye. The darkspawn, she had to-- but no. There was no sign of the dusty stone and corpses that decorated the top of the Tower of Ishal, no mountainous bulk of an orc, cooling in death. Instead, she was in a small hut, warm and loose-limbed from what felt like a truly excessive amount of sleep. With a shake of her head, she reached up to check her shoulder, where she'd felt the searing pain of a genlock's arrow stab into her; smooth, unbroken skin met her questioning eyes and fingers.

"Good, you're awake." A familiar voice. Arya glanced up, hand reaching for a sword that wasn't there, and saw the witch who'd helped them before the battle.

"I remember you. Morrigan." Morrigan laid her scale armor in a tidy pile next to her on the bed. Arya picked up the pieces of her armor, donning them automatically as she quizzed the other woman about how she'd ended up here. When Morrigan carefully informed her that Loghain "quit the field," Arya sat back down on the bed with a thump and looked up at her, mouth slack with shock. Duncan, dead? King Cailan, that bright, scattered man she'd only just met, dead? Every other Grey Warden and the vast majority of the army at Ostagar, all _dead_? She forced herself to ask Morrigan what the battlefield looked like, her mind drawing a blank when she tried to encompass that much devastation and death.

Only Alistair still lived. She and Alistair, the two greenest Wardens in all Ferelden. Truly the Maker had turned his face away from them.

When she had collected herself enough to stand and finish dressing, she took a deep breath and nodded to the other woman. No matter what happened, Arya would never hear the end of it from her mother if she didn't act every inch the gracious Cousland -- and at the thought, she nearly collapsed down to the bed again, because her mother and father were gone, as well, her brother Fergus missing, and Highever occupied by a man that she'd sworn would become intimate with the Cousland family blade. One family gone, the other wiped out, each by an act of treachery that cried out for bloody vengeance.

"Thank you, Morrigan." Manners. Even for a half-feral apostate mage woman. And truly, despite her mocking words, her actions hadn't been hostile, but helpful.

"I-- you are welcome." She sounded uncertain at the politeness.

Outside, the sun glimmered through wisps of fog rising from the swamp. Next to the door of the hut, Rex rose to his feet and barked with his usual unfailing good cheer. She was alive and well, and that was enough for him. Arya dropped to one knee and threw her arms around the massive shoulders of her mabari.  "Rex! I should have known no mere darkspawn army could bring you down."

Rex barked, his stubby tail wagging. Arya pressed her face to his neck and inhaled the smell of her childhood. Alistair wasn't the only one who'd lived. "You smell disgusting, you know."

"There. You see? Your companion lives." Morrigan's mother turned to the other person standing there, his back toward her-- Alistair. The set of his head and shoulders bespoke deep pain, but she could see when he turned around that it was no pain of the body that Morrigan's mother could magic away. His expression was grave, desperate loss swimming in his eyes.

"Thank the Maker you're alive." The words could have been taken straight from her lips. Alistair at least had been in the Wardens for a few months -- infinitely longer than she who had joined literally on the eve of battle. Surely he would have an idea of what to do, where to go -- but the two of them had barely begun to talk to Morrigan's mother Flemeth when it became clear to her that any kind of leadership role was squarely on her shoulders. Arya almost felt as though she could reach up and touch the mantle of responsibility that had descended on her, a mantle she thought had largely passed from her with her forcible induction into the Wardens at Duncan's hand.

Arya wanted to shake Alistair until his teeth rattled. _You're supposed to be my _brother_, act like a man_, she raged in the darkest corner of her mind, even as her mouth kept forming questions and gathering information. Arl Eamon, the treaties...an army. The two of them would have to build an army from the ground up, and do it quick enough to stop the Blight from ravaging Fereden. And as far as she could tell, that really meant _she_ would have to build an army, while Alistair carried the packs, guarded her flank, and deferred to her about everything.

"I do have one last thing," Flemeth offered, and Arya perked up. The old witch had something to offer them that would help? Her eyes flicked from mother to daughter as Morrigan joined them and asked about dinner.

"You shall be joining them, dear."

Morrigan's expression was comical in her surprise. This obviously hadn't been discussed between the two of them beforehand. Was Flemeth trying to sabotage them? Surely not, Arya thought, given how easily she'd handed over the treaties, and the effort she must have gone to in order to save herself and Alistair.

"I appreciate the offer, but if Morrigan doesn't want to come..."

"Nonsense!" Flemeth rattled on, slightly creepy in her manic entertainment, and Arya looked back at Morrigan. The other woman looked...shocked, certainly, and angry, but not afraid. And if she wanted to end up with an army, she could hardly afford to turn down any addition to her forces -- which consisted, laughably, of one man and one dog at the moment.

"Are we really going to bring her along because her _mother_ says so?" Alistair's tone was doubtful, and Arya suppressed a sigh, casting her eyes briefly upwards.

"We need all the help we can get, Alistair." _You're certainly not helping much, so far._

"If you prefer, I can be your silent, invisible guide." Morrigan offered, but Arya had a hard time believing she could be any such thing.

"No, I prefer you speak your mind." She attempted a welcoming smile.

"You'll regret that!" Flemeth cackled.

**

"And it persists! Maddening!" Morrigan's voice rose as she threw up her hands in frustration. Arya glanced over her shoulder with a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth, only to meet Morrigan's eyes and flush with embarrassment that she should be caught laughing at one of her troops, so to speak. She snapped her fingers, bringing Rex to her side, and knelt at the side of the road.

"Rex," she said. He whined, pawing at the ground and not meeting her eyes. "_Rex_."

When he finally looked up, she wagged a finger at him. "Behave. Morrigan is a witch. If you bother her too much, she may cast a spell on you. She could transform you into a cat, you know." Rex flinched, whining pitifully and scooting closer to her.

"Don't even try it. I know you too well," Arya laughed, and rubbed his ears briefly before standing again. "Just keep in mind what I've told you next time you feel the urge to torment one of my other companions, you overfed runt."

With a sharp bark of acknowledgment, Rex trotted off into the bushes to attend to necessary canine business. Arya glanced behind her again and found Morrigan looking at her with an unreadable expression.

**

"They chose to live in slavery here like animals. _I_ say we leave them to it." Morrigan's tone was full of scorn, entirely dismissive of the tame Circle mages. Compared to them, she was a feral wolf.

"No." Arya snapped out, crisp and firm and almost before Morrigan's mouth had closed. "We will do our best to save them."

Morrigan's golden eyes met hers, and for a moment Arya felt the full weight of Morrigan's scorn extended to her, as well. _Very well_, she thought, pressing her lips together. _Time to test the leash._

Wynne stood by her side, and she made a show of casting her eyes over the rest of her party to pick out who to accompany her.

"Alistair, Morrigan, with me." Morrigan bristled, but Arya was already turning toward the barrier separating them from the rest of the Tower. "Wynne, guide the way."

 For all his templar training, Alistair would follow her lead, she knew, but Morrigan...for Morrigan, she would have to hope that the desire to slay abominations would override any enmity for whatever Circle mages might remain. And vice versa.

 "I resent being included in this futile endeavor." It was an hour before Morrigan finally spoke up to say anything outside of the heat of battle. Her staff tapped on the stone floor with each long stride, punctuating her speech. Alistair and Wynne had fallen a few paces behind, the almost-templar guarding the elder mage. Arya kept Morrigan with her in the lead because she was confident that the other woman could handle herself.

 "You could have declined to accompany us," Arya replied mildly. Morrigan leveled a glare at her.

 "Who else would you have chosen?" She muttered, half to herself.

 "Leliana," Arya replied. "We've passed up seven locked chests so far, and we're only halfway to the top of the tower. Bringing her might have made this little excursion much more profitable.”

 "Yes, right up until those little arrows of hers failed to bring down the demons that you and Alistair seem to wade into without a care in the world."

 Arya laughed. "Have you tested the draw on that bow she uses? I think we would have managed somehow. But I cannoy deny that having your magics in the battle has made the task easier."

"Of course it has. Leliana's talents lie more toward self-preservation than assisting others in combat."

Arya swung the next door open and stepped through, scanning the room for signs of activity. It was quiet, but-- her foot hit the floor and agony blazed through her as a trap sprung closed around her ankle, buckling the heavy mail boot. Arya staggered, drawing her sword and casting about for the demons she heard scratching and clawing into existence.

"Arya!" Alistair's shouted her name like a war cry, plowing through the door past her to pummel one of the abominations with his shield. Morrigan followed, then Wynne, hard on Alistair's heels while Arya swung her sword awkwardly at the trap, beating at the trap's hinge with the pommel.

She pulled free just in time to see the last demon in the room go down, spelled into solid ice which cracked and crumbled away.

"Are you all right?" Morrigan offered her a hand, lowering the tip of her staff to touch her ankle lightly. A spell of healing wreathed her foot and she felt the singular sensation of flesh rapidly knitting together. She grabbed Morrigan's hand and let the other woman pull her up.

"Thank you, Morrigan." Wynne straightened up from where she knelt at Alistair's side, mending his arm after a claw ripped through his upper arm.

"Everyone whole again?" Arya lifted an eyebrow, checking each of her companions, then nodded. "Then we move on."

**

Arya sat down next to the fire with a thump, rubbing a gloved hand over her eyes. The smell of leather and blood, sweat and blight, clung to the scales and seams of the gauntlet, and she pulled it off in disgust. She was so tired already. When she'd overheard the villagers in Lothering mention the Circle's troubles, she knew she had to go there first. The mages, surely they would be the most fragile thread of the three allied groups she needed -- and an empty Tower, or one full of abominations, was about as helpful against the Blight as a sieve was for bailing out a boat. So, mages first, though she would dearly have liked to travel first to Redcliffe and beg Arl Eamon's aid.

If only she had...no, best not to go down that road, even in the privacy of her own mind. Arl Eamon's troubles began before their journey ever did, she knew that now. And though they'd arrived too late to save many of the villagers, they'd fortified the survivors and held out the night.

First the wracked and ruined Circle, and now, the Arl's mageling son...Arya found her thoughts turning back to Morrigan and Flemeth often in consideration over the last few days. Neither of them was any sort of creature the Chantry would ever condone; and yet, Flemeth rescued them. Morrigan traveled with them, and for all her standoffishness, fought with great ferocity at Arya's side. Could it be true, that the unceasing pressure of the Chantry and the knife's-edge sharpness of the templars caused more trouble than they prevented?

Certainly these "Mages' Collective" requests seemed forthright enough. A few left a bad taste in her mouth, suspicious of every wheedling turn of phrase, but collecting elfroot? Killing maleficarum? Delivering messages, even unwelcome ones? None of these were anything the Chantry should be frowning upon, in and of themselves. Arya shook her head, and clambered to her feet to check in with Wynne, see how she was faring after her collapse earlier in the day.

**

Strange, how human voices could make even an empty ruin seem less frightening. It was as if breaking the curse had lifted some invisible shroud over the whole place, and now the numerous small noises of habitation sounded less threatening, even more than could be accounted for by the fact that they were being made by people instead of werewolves.

"Are you sure that was the right choice?" The cured men had all filtered out of the main chamber, leaving only Arya and her small party. Morrigan drew near and looked at her inquisitively, dark brows drawn together, golden eyes hooded.

"No." Arya sighed. "Not at all. What would you have done?"

The other woman hummed, low and soft. "Zathrian was clearly untrustworthy, though the rest of the Dalish offered us no treachery. Had the Lady of the Forest -- Witherfang -- wished simply to slay Zathrian, I would have taken her side. Were I in her place," Here Morrigan paused, and Arya thought of the grimoire that lay hidden away somewhere in her pack, "That is all I would have wished. Mercy is...not something I ever viewed as a strength."

"I am not sure it was mercy that drove me. I could have convinced her to kill the elves, you know." Arya had felt it when they first met the Lady. A moment where she knew she could have told the spirit that the best course of action was wholesale slaughter of Zathrian's clan, and the Lady would have believed her. "I almost did. Imagine a force of werewolves to set against the Blight. They would have been worth ten times their numbers in human forces."

Morrigan shook her head. "Yet you did not, and I know why." Arya glanced over at her, eyebrows lifted.

"You believe the Blight will end, here, in Ferelden."

"I cannot believe otherwise," Arya whispered. "I must believe we will succeed. It is the only thing that gives me the strength to wake up and don my armor to fight again each day."

"And because you believe that, you cannot simply look at the werewolves as a force against the Blight." Morrigan spoke as if to a small child who could only comprehend the simplest of concepts. "After the Blight, the forces you have built and called upon will remain. The Circle mages, Arl Eamon's forces, the High Dragon they called Andraste...you have consistently made choices that will leave Ferelden in a stronger, more stable position even after the Blight is ended. I have watched you act consistently not only out of mercy, but out of a greater sense of responsibility to the entirety of Ferelden."

"Morrigan--" Arya started, then found herself tongue-tied, a blush rising in her cheeks.

"What? It is the truth, no more and no less." Morrigan drew herself up, stiff and proud.

"Thank you," Arya finally managed.

**

Arya paced back and forth, trying unsuccessfully to walk off her nagging irritation. They were camped practically on Denerim's doorstep, but she who had visited the city as an honored guest was now reduced to sneaking in and skulking around, trying to stay out of way of Loghain and Howe. She thought she'd gotten over her life as Arya Cousland being a thing of the past, but some of it apparently lingered.

Attempting to divert her thoughts to more productive ends, Arya went over her mental checklist. Two of the three treaties were settled; only Orzammar's support remained unconfirmed. Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan were ramping up the forces at Redcliffe as fast as they could, and she'd even secured Soldier's Peak. Once the Blight was over, the Ferelden Wardens would need a base of operations, though Arya wasn't sure that she could bring herself to live in a place that held so many ghosts. Lothering was fallen, the Blight spreading northward and outward in fingers of darkspawn activity that crawled across the land.

Leliana made a joke that Arya didn't catch, but Wynne's cackle of laughter rang out clear as a bell. When Arya glanced over, Alistair looked even redder than the fire's light could account for. She was glad her party was getting along reasonably well despite their differences. Even Sten had warmed up to her a little. Arya hoped the small miracle of the party's cohesion would hold as long as she needed it to. 

Arya let her pacing bring her over to Morrigan's fire, holding up a hand in greeting to the other woman.

"Mind if I sit by your fire? All I want is some quiet time, but Leliana's set to go on for another hour at least and I don't want to bring them all down."

"No, I do not mind a bit. I completely understand the desire to escape from such as them. Why do you think I make my camp away from the rest?" Morrigan's tone was acidic, but with a certain air of commiseration that made Arya smile.

"Thank you," she said, pulling off her gauntlets to chafe her hands at the fire.

"I am reminded of our first meeting in the Wilds. I had been in animal form for some time, watching your progress. I was intrigued to see such a formidable woman, obviously more potent than the men she traveled with." Morrigan spoke carefully, as she often did, but Arya could read the honesty in her expression and voice. "Yet I resented it, when Flemeth assigned me to travel with you. I assumed that, at best, you would drive me from your company as soon as we left the Wilds."

"Why would I do that?" Arya blurted out, startled into bluntness. Even Morrigan had to see how desperate their straits were, how much she needed any and every hand that would take up arms to fight. She'd seen enough of the unpleasant decisions Arya wrestled with in the name of pragmatism. Even if not out of pragmatism...Morrigan's had been the first face she'd seen after the battle of Ostagar. She'd been helpful, in her way. Arya even hazarded the thought that Morrigan was her friend, albeit the strangest friend she'd ever had and not of the sort she could ever have imagined, back in her previous life as Arya Cousland, father's pet and mother's terror.

"I am aware that I have...little talent for forming friendships. To put it lightly." Morrigan looked away from her, color rising in her cheeks. "'Tis something I know nothing of, nor ever thought I needed. Yet when I discovered Flemeth's plans, you did not abandon me. Whatever your reasons, you fought what must have been a terrible battle without hope of real reward."

Arya opened her mouth, then closed it. Flemeth...she'd fought Flemeth for Morrigan's sake. She'd never tell the other woman, but when Flemeth offered to give her the book and go, her newly-forged practical streak reared its head, and whispered in her mind.  _You know you can't trust her. Leaving her alive is too much of a risk at a time like this. _ Yet she wavered -- could she even defeat the old woman? Was it even worth the fight? Wouldn't it be better to have a powerful ally indebted to her at a later date?

 _What if she came after Morrigan?_ Came the next whisper, and Arya had found herself turning down the old woman's offer, almost as soon as the thought crossed her mind.

 "I did it because I'm your friend." It seemed as strange coming from her mouth as talk of friendship did coming from Morrigan's. She peered at Morrigan uncertainly, watching the firelight flicker in her bright golden eyes. Something softened in her face.

 "And that is what I do not understand. Of all the things I could have imagined would have resulted when Flemeth told me to go with you, the very last would have been that I would find in you a friend, perhaps even a sister." Arya's brows drew together and up, a smile flittiing across her face. A...sister? Morrigan thought of her so highly?

 Morrigan squared her shoulders and looked directly at Arya, a suspicious brightness in her eyes. "I want you to know that while I may not always prove worthy of your friendship, I will always value it."

 Arya felt her own eyes prick with tears in response to the quiver in Morrigan's voice. In an impulsive move, she reached wrapped her arms around the other woman, pulling her close. It wasn't terribly comfortable, chain and plate and leather all clanking and scraping against each other, but Arya felt the rise and fall of Morrigan's breath, and smelled the woodsy, musky scent of her skin. When they broke apart, she laid her hand against Morrigan's cheek, her thumb brushing away tears.

 "Enough of such idle talk. There are more useful things to be done, surely." Morrigan's eyes dropped and she backed away, Arya's hand falling to her side. She bit her lip and returned to the main campfire, all but ignoring her other companions, looking blankly into the fire and thinking about a thousand different things.

 **

 "We'd better head to the Assembly Chamber--"

 "No." Arya snapped, cutting Wynne off mid-sentence. She cast an apologetic glance toward the older woman before continuing. "We're going back up to the surface to camp for the night. It's been days; delivering the crown can wait a few more hours."

 _I need to see the sky._

Even once they'd reached the surface, Arya couldn't shake off the creeping feeling of dread that hung over her. Long after the others were asleep, she wandered the camp, snagging a wineskin from their stores and climbing on top of the supply wagon. Taking a long pull from the wineskin, Arya tipped her head back and gazed up at the night sky.

Every time her eyes drifted closed for more than an instant, she saw the Broodmother. Heard Hespith's croon as she sang her song of horror and death. She was cold, but the shivers running through her had nothing to do with the temperature. After another swallow of wine, she got as comfortable as she could on the irregular stacks of supplies and started making up constellations in her head.

"Arya." She sat bolt upright with a gasp, hand clenching around the hilt of her sword before she recognized the voice and the figure that had approached her unnoticed.

"Morrigan." Half-climbing, half-falling over the edge of the wagon, Arya reached solid ground and stood up. 

"Can I-- do you-- um. Are there darkspawn approaching?" It was all she could think of that would cause the other woman to be awake in the middle of the night, and to come find her.

"No." Morrigan's voice was low. Soothing. "Can you not sleep?"

Arya shook her head, wordless.

"Here, come with me." Morrigan took her hand and led her through the camp. "Sit," she said in exactly the tone Arya had used with Rex in the past, pointing at the heap of furs and leathers that made up her bed. Obediently, Arya sat -- or rather, started moving downward and let gravity do the rest, thanks to the now-empty skin of wine.

Morrigan sat down next to her, comfortably close but not touching. "Why can't you sleep?"

"Darkspawn," Arya muttered. "Wardens can sense them, and down there, in the Deep Roads..."

She trailed off, trying to banish the memory of that sense, alerting her to the presence of hundreds, thousands, uncountable numbers of darkspawn, all around her. Darkspawn that had all, apparently, come from Broodmothers.

At the thought, her stomach revolted, and she flung herself back to her feet, staggering a few steps away before bracing herself against a tree-trunk and emptying her stomach of all the wine she'd just finished -- and most of dinner to boot. She heard soft steps behind her, and a gentle hand settled on her shoulder as another skin came into her field of view.

 "Water," Morrigan offered, and Arya took it gratefully. A swallow to wash out her mouth and a few more to clear her throat, and she handed it back before returning to the fireside.

 "Is it that strong?" Concern was writ plain across Morrigan's face, and Arya eased herself down again, rubbing a hand over her mouth.

 "No. That's not all of it." Arya shook her head. "When we were searching for Oghren's wife, Branka, we ran into a lot of darkspawn. Hurlocks, genlocks, shrieks, emissaries, ogres; you name it, we probably left a corpse or two of it behind us down there. But the worst part was right before we found Branka." 

 "I didn't know how darkspawn are created." Balling her hands into fists, she forced her voice to remain even. "It wasn't something that ever seemed important. But Branka -- she found out, and she allowed it to happen. Allowed her own people, women just like her, her own _lover_, to be turned into--" Arya swallowed hard, pushing down the memory. 

 "Monstrous things," she finished in a whisper.

 She was still under the influence of the wine enough that the touch of Morrigan's hand on her head sent her reeling in confusion; when she realized what was happening, she forced herself to become still, to breathe evenly. Morrigan's hand stroked over her hair, gently and steadily, and bit by bit Arya felt her tense muscles ease and relax.

 "Morrigan--" Arya sighed, turning toward her; hands cupped her face and she leaned into the other woman's touch. Morrigan drew her close and kissed her forehead, brushing away strands of hair.

 "Be at ease," she murmured. One knuckle rapped on Arya's breastplate. "Take off your armor and sleep here. I will keep you safe for the rest of the night."

 Too exhausted and heartsick to even consider arguing, Arya shucked her armor in a heap by the fire and curled up next to Morrigan, burrowing under the top layer of furs. The smell was strong, but not unpleasant, and as she rolled over, she found herself nose-to-nose with the other woman. 

 She brushed her fingers along Morrigan's cheek. "Thank you," she breathed, and pressed her lips to Morrigan's cheek, missing her mark and grazing the corner of her lips. Morrigan brought a hand to her chin and tipped it up, returning the kiss directly on Arya's lips.

 "I hope you will understand if I say that it is not truly as a sister I think of you, Arya." At her words, Arya would have jerked, if it weren't for the fingers stroking her jaw. "It is simply not something I know an appropriate word for."

 "Not a-- a lover?" Arya licked her lips, suddenly afire. For a moment she thought back to the night she'd left home, Iona warm and supple in her arms only to be struck down by Howe's forces.

 "Certainly not." Morrigan's tone suggested it should be as obvious as the sun rising in the east. "We are not lovers, after all."

 Arya smiled and pressed her lips to Morrigan's, her hand skimming along the other woman's arm. "That can be remedied."

 **

 Arya tore into the crusty bread with her teeth, wolfing it down faster than it deserved. Their supplies had been fortified by Arl Eamon, and they were eating better than they had on the road in at least a fortnight.

 Alistair coughed, and Arya realized the small group around the fire had grown quiet. She looked up from her fire-induced reverie and saw the tall, dark-haired figure across the flames, her shape distorted and ever-changing.

 "Good evening, Morrigan." The other woman stared at her silently for a long moment, then turned and left without saying a word.

 Arya set down her bowl and rose to her feet as if pulled by strings. She felt Alistair's eyes on her -- well, everyone's, but Alistair's she noticed the most -- as she rounded the fire and walked after the witch. When she reached the warmth and light of Morrigan's fire, she found the other woman seated on the pile of furs and leathers in her shelter. "Sprawled" was probably a more accurate term; Morrigan half-reclined like a queen of ancient Tevinter on her couch, or a lioness on her rock. Arya found her mouth dry as the desert, all words lost.

 "A daughter of Flemeth is taught to take her pleasure from others, giving nothing in return." Morrigan's voice was soft and clinical, discussing her childhood as if it were of no more import than the weather. "A reciprocal relationship would only be a last resort for Flemeth. A gift freely given, with no expectation of being reciprocated, something altogether unheard of."

 Arya remained quiet, letting Morrigan reveal as much as she felt like. "I was surprised that she offered up the treaties freely, before the battle of Ostagar. I can only imagine she felt it would be less trouble for her to hand them over for the Wardens to use against the Blight than it would have been to have to combat or flee the Blight herself."

 "But that is beside the current point." Morrigan cast an unreadable glance toward her. "The subject at hand is your need for privacy, calm, and rest before the final battle -- and my ability, and desire, to...give you that gift."

 Arya's eyebrows shot up. Morrigan's expression had turned soft and open, vulnerability underlying the strong will.

 "Take off your armor and rest by the fire." Morrigan sounded slightly awkward, but earnest. "You cannot be expected to relax with half a dozen fawning, prattling sycophants pestering you with questions and worries."

 Arya smiled at the other woman's protectiveness. "I'm well used to it by now, Morrigan." Still, she started unbuckling her armor and shucking it piece by piece in a heap near the fire, close enough to dry out but not so close as to risk charring.

 When she was free of the heavy plate from head to toe, clad only in her undershirt and trousers, she lowered herself down to a sitting position. It was dangerous, now, to be caught even in camp without her armor on, but she had barely taken it off for more than a few hours each day for the past week, constantly on guard for darkspawn attacks. She needed this; she had to trust that Morrigan's magic could protect her and warn the camp if anything was coming, early enough for her to be ready to face it.

 "We go to confront the archdemon. The heart of the Blight. Everything that we have done, every decision you have made, will come to fruition very soon."

 "Yes," Arya managed in a cracked whisper. She could feel it coming, like the current of an immense river pulling her under. She sat down within arm's reach of the other woman, but closer to the fire, and let her head drop. 

 "I'm afraid, Morrigan." Arya's voice was barely audible, even to her own ears, but she knew Morrigan heard her. Cool hands settled on her shoulders, then drew gently down her arms to her hands, grasping them lightly and turning them palm-up.

 "Do not be afraid. I have seen what these hands are capable of." Her hands released Arya's and glided back up her arms to rest on her shoulders. She felt a puff of warm breath and a light, brief press of lips to the top of her head.

 "I have seen what this mind is capable of." One arm wrapped around her, close and warm; Arya felt the warmth and weight of Morrigan close behind her as her hand settled between Arya's breasts, off-center, over the pounding beat of her pulse. "And this heart."

 "Do not be afraid," Morrigan murmured in her ear and Arya turned around, catching a glimpse of bright golden eyes before she buried her hands in that lustrous black hair and brought their lips together, her own eyes squeezing closed.

 Arya stared at the fire, the beating of her heart under Morrigan's hand sounding as loud as Shale's massive footsteps to her ears. Morrigan's other arm snaked around her waist, her hand settling on Arya's hip.

 "Morrigan..." she breathed, and felt the witch press closer to her. She brushed her lips over the back of Arya's neck, and Arya felt an electric tingle run down her spine. She turned, lips parting but not knowing what to say, and Morrigan's mouth met hers in a slanted, hungry kiss. Morrigan tasted like winter and like mist, like the vials of lyrium she'd touched her tongue to in curiosity, and like the bright tang in the air during a thunderstorm. She smelled like the forest, and like musk, and like the ripe fruits of autumn that Arya and Dog used to go questing for, so long ago in another life.

 Arya gasped as their tongues met, reaching up to curl a hand around the back of Morrigan's neck. She couldn't get leverage to take control of the kiss, and she shifted in Morrigan's arms, trying to turn around to explore her mouth more aggressively. Morrigan pulled away with a wordless negative noise and held her in place, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the skin of Arya's neck. When she bit down on the curve of muscle where her neck and shoulders met, Arya let her head fall forward and swallowed a moan.

 Morrigan let her mouth drift up Arya's neck to her hear, sucking on the sensitive skin just under her earlobe, her tongue a flutter of heat. Arya arched her neck and turned her head as Morrigan kissed down her jaw, until their lips met again.

 This time she didn't try to shift positions, but kissed Morrigan fiercely, tongue and teeth taking as much as she could get. She felt Morrigan's hands start to drift, caressing her stomach and brushing over her bound breasts. A fire kindled under her skin even as she broke off the kiss to catch her breath and ask the question that suddenly plagued her mind.

 "Aren't we being watched? The camp is right--" Morrigan chuckled, a low sound that made something inside her clench tight with heat.

 "I am not Flemeth's daughter for naught. How could I not know the simplest cantrips of stealth and aversion? No one will look at us, nor will they even notice that aren't looking at us. Even if they did, they would not see, nor hear," she paused, considering her words as one hand settled on Arya's breast, "anything untoward."

 "Ah," Arya said artlessly, further words departing her as Morrigan drew her hands up under her linen shirt, running them up her sides and down her stomach. Her muscles quivered under the gentle touch, nerves afire. Morrigan drew her shirt up and over her head, Arya raising her arms cooperatively and starting to turn around again only to have Morrigan catch her shoulders and keep her from moving from their current relative positions.

 "Ah-ah," she said lightly, "Stay. Allow me to do this my way."

 Arya swallowed, then nodded, and was rewarded with Morrigan's hands kneading her shoulders, working out the knots in her muscles until she drooped forward, loose and calm. Morrigan's hands came around her ribs to stroke her bound breasts, rubbing against them through the tight cloth of the binding, and Arya inhaled deeply, arching her chest into Morrigan's touch.

 Her nipples grew hard as Morrigan's fingers teased her. She felt the straps of her binding loosening gradually as the witch untucked the end and unwound it, loop by loop, her fingers gliding over the skin revealed. She went at a steady pace; even when Arya's breath whooshed out as her breasts were freed, Morrigan's touch continued, unhurried, until the last loop fell away and she set the carefully-wrapped bundle aside. Arya felt the cool night air on her skin, but between the fire's heat before her and Morrigan's behind her, she felt -- not comfortable, not with the tension between the two of them, but not chilled, at least.

 She curled her hands into fists, looking over her shoulder askance at Morrigan. She saw the glint of the fire reflected in her golden eyes, and even though Arya watched her hands, saw them lift and reach out, it was still a shock to feel skin on skin as Morrigan ran her fingers up Arya's spine and then around to cup her breasts.

 Arya laid her hands over Morrigan's and captured one, turning it palm-up and bringing it to her lips for a kiss. Morrigan rested a finger against her bottom lip and Arya opened her mouth, tasting the sweat on Morrigan's skin as she licked it. Morrigan toyed with her mouth, easing her finger in and out while her other hand traced elaborate filigrees over Arya's breasts with her sharp nails.

 Arya felt increasingly disconnected from everything – the darkspawn, the encroaching winter, even the prospect of discovery by her other companions. All that mattered at the moment was the pleasure Morrigan drew forth. Arya leaned back, tangling a hand in Morrigan's hair and craning her neck to seek out her lips.

 Morrigan's fingers rolled her nipples, squeezing and tugging at them. Arya moaned into Morrigan's mouth, trying to roll toward her but again constrained by the other woman's grip. Morrigan sent a hand skating down the taut muscle of Arya's stomach and down between her legs, a firm pressure that Arya ground up against as best she could. Morrigan yanked at the ties of her trousers, loosening the laces until she could snake her hand inside. Arya gasped, her hips bucking.

 She let out a soft whine, her trembling hands curling into fists, knuckles white at the spikes of sensation shooting through her. Closing her eyes, Arya rocked against Morrigan's hand, her mind a blank expanse of brilliant white as the other woman played her body like an instrument. Morrigan brought her to the brink and then eased off, time and time again, until she was limp and wanting, every muscle trembling.

 When Morrigan finally made her come, it was like an explosion behind her tightly closed eyelids, sparkling as her body seized and jerked, entirely beyond her control. She'd never felt such exquisite relief, never put herself so trustingly in someone else's hands and let them draw out her pleasure so long. In the past, her few and far between partners had always been eager to please, to heed her wishes and go faster or harder when she bid them. With Morrigan, she could only take what Morrigan would give, and give only what the other woman would take.

 Relaxed and mindless, she let Morrigan lay her out under her furs and leather, and wrapped her arms around the witch, drifting off to the soundest sleep she'd had in weeks.

 **

 Arya let her shoulders sag as she entered her room, her mind wrestling with the information Riordan had given them. She didn't notice the figure by the fire until Morrigan turned, her boots scraping lightly on the stone floor.

 "Do not be alarmed. It is only I."


End file.
